Right Here Waiting
by Cardinal Robbins
Summary: SVU AU John Munch and Sarah Zelman face a brief separation, with her old flame thrown into the mix during a long-distance assignment. When you miss someone terribly, even a day away is a very long time.


"Right Here Waiting" by Cardinal Robbins

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Disclaimer: I don't own John, but Sarah belongs to me and WGAw agrees. This is set not long at all after "November Rain," when Munch and Zelman were at that awkward clingy phase of their relationship. (Yes, we all go through it, even John and Sarah.) Nothing like US Marshal Dan Stranahan to throw a wrench in the works!

Lyrics to "Right Here Waiting" are copyright Richard Marx, Chi-Boy Music.

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Don Cragen looked out into the bullpen and watched Munch carefully pouring over evidence, as Zelman peered over his shoulder and added her commentary to his. They make a fine team, he thought, as their heads popped up almost in synch to ask Fin a question.

The Captain of the Sixteenth Precinct hesitated to break up their work rhythm, but a VICAP case waited for no one. "Munch, Zelman, my office – now," he called out. They looked over and went into his office so close together they seemed to function as one.

"You wanted to see us, Cap?" John asked.

"Yes, both of you. Have a seat, this may take a moment." He studied them carefully as they sat down, both watching his face for any advance signs of what was to come. "We have our Central Park rapist, John," he said, as their expressions brightened, "and you're right – he's in Toronto. Good job. You've located our perp."

"I did have help," he said, leaning his head toward Zelman.

Cragen nodded. "Good job, both of you," he amended. "Now, the hard part. Because he jumped the border, the Mounties are holding him for us."

"Can't they send a Mountie down to bring him to us?" Munch asked. "They've done it before… Or, can't they turn him over to one of the D.O.J. people, and they can bring him to us?"

"That's just the thing, John," Cragen explained. "We need a crack at him first. It's a directive from the Mayor and you know how I hate to disappoint Hizzoner. To guarantee we get him first, we need one of our people up there, too. I don't want the Marshals to conveniently 'lose' him, since we're building a case that could result in a sentence of one hundred years or more."

"Very well. Flip you for it," Munch said to Zelman. He reached into his pocket for a quarter, flipped it high into the air and said, "Call it."

"Heads." She laughed as he caught the coin and flipped it onto the back of his left hand.

He took his right hand off the silver coin and it gleamed, head upward. "Your lucky day. You win. Don't forget your heavy coat."

"Guess you'll be packing your overnight bag, Sarah," Cragen said, amazed at how quickly they'd worked out who would go and who wouldn't. "Coordinate your travel with Dan Stranahan at the D.O.J. – he's the lead on this for his people."

She looked at Munch, her mouth open ever so slightly. "Hey, John, you know Toronto better than I do. You also speak French. Would you like to get out of the house for a while?"

"My French and Canadian French differ in the extreme," he replied. "You won't be up there long enough to worry about it." He tipped his head back and looked at her. "I'll send you off with an English to French dictionary, if you're concerned about it."

"Funny, Munch," she retorted, giving him a look. "I'll struggle along on my own, thanks."

"Got an issue with this one, Zelman?" Cragen inquired pointedly. "If you want John to go instead, that's fine. But I'd rather we dealt with this almost on an agency to agency basis. You used to be Bureau, you know how the game is played." He didn't need to remind her he'd pulled strings to get her, especially because of her FBI background.

"Understood," she answered. "Or, Fin could go…" Her last chance to sucker someone else and keep from seeing Stranahan.

"If I didn't know better," Cragen began, "I'd say you were trying to avoid this assignment. Are you?" He drilled her with his gaze and she held it, looking him square in the face.

She let out a long breath. "No, sir," she said miserably. "I'll arrange it all with the proper departments here, then I'll go up and bring back our perp. Nothing to it." She forced cheerfulness in her voice as she looked over to John, who studiously avoided her eyes.

"I think Sarah and I are going to lunch in a little while," Munch decided. "Want us to bring you back anything, Cap?"

"No, I'm going out later in the afternoon – the Chief wants to meet with me, so that's good for a steak on the city's tab." Cragen, they had noticed, wore an official uniform white shirt with NYPD patches on the sleeves and his dress blue slacks. His dress blue jacket hung on his coat tree, ready and waiting for his meeting with the brass. He leveled his gaze at Zelman once more. "The topic of conversation will be this case, and I'll be happy to tell him you're there to protect our interests. When I mention your name, they actually listen to what I have to say."

She blushed hotly. "I'm on it, Cap," she replied. "I'll get him back here for arraignment. No worries." She couldn't keep her trepidation from showing, but at least Cragen didn't say anything more about it. John got up and she did, too, following him from the office.

"Sorry," she apologized, once they were out of Don's earshot. "I should have called 'tails'."

"It's my fault," he insisted. "I shouldn't have glibly said I'd flip you for it. You couldn't help it – you won." He looked at her and smiled. "It's going to be fine. I think Cap's actually pleased you won the coin-toss. Saved him the trouble of explaining the brass wanted you to go, instead of me." He knew Cragen well enough to know when Cap was about to tap dance; the coin-toss had saved him the inner turmoil and trouble.

She looked worn down, her shoulders slumped as she took a deep breath. "I need some air, right now," she said, as she walked briskly toward the stairs to the roof.

Munch watched her walk away, her womanly stride coupled with a cop's slight swagger. She carried herself so differently when she was on-duty, a Glock at her side. When she wasn't packing and they walked in Central Park, she was less cop and more his gal. Would she still be his when she returned from Canada? He started for the stairs.

Stabler had met her as he came down from the roof. "Zelman okay? She's up top and didn't look happy. I'm not sure I've ever seen her on the roof before." He looked concerned. "Maybe you should go up and make sure she's not headed for the ledge." Elliot cracked a wide smile.

"She just found out she has to fly on a commercial airline," Munch explained. "She's not keen on air travel these days, so you're right – I should probably check on her." He shrugged and headed up the stairs. "Air travel… The bus-way of the unfriendly skies."

He opened the roof access door and looked around. Where was she? He started to walk the rooftop and found her leaning against the heating and cooling equipment. She was as far from the edge of the roof as she could get, and still be 'up top.'

"Hey," he said softly. "You okay, babe? Sorry you have to fly…" He looked out over the rooftops and it amazed him, but it intimidated her and he felt sad because of it. A failing she handled, but he saw straight through it to her terror. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and squeezed.

She nodded. "I'm okay… More or less," she finally answered. "It's not the flying entirely. It's a Stranahan case. Dan, not his son. Are you okay with my going up there?"

"We have no choice," he said, which wasn't the answer he wanted to give her, but she deserved the truth. "You heard Cragen; he wants it 'agency to agency' as much as it can be. You haven't seen him in over a year. He'll probably be thrilled to renew the acquaintance."

Zelman gestured widely. "If only it was so easy." She stared out over the skyline, surprised to see a hawk circling in the bright daylight. "We used to be pretty tight, Danny and I. He knows I'm spoken for these days, but this could still get awkward."

"Are you telling me he still has feelings for you?" Munch lowered his head and looked at her, his dark eyes observing her expression carefully. Like a detective who plumbed the depths for the facts.

Sarah knew she was being watched and kept her tone as even as her expression. "I'm telling you I'm not sure…it's been so long. What if he's still carrying a torch? My sources say he hasn't so much as dated since we split."

"I guess the real question is, do you still have feelings for him? He's saved your life before, which is pretty heady provocation to still care for him." John reached over, took her hand and held it for a long moment.

"You've saved my life before, too. It's an even playing field, but you have all the advantages." She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze.

"Such as?" He knew he'd pinned her, but his curiosity demanded satisfaction.

"You know how I feel about you, John," she said softly. "And I know how you feel about me."

"We hide it well, however. All you have to do is go up and do your job. Stranahan respects you as a fellow law enforcement officer," Munch assured her. "He respects you for who you are."

"Sure he does," she quipped, giving him a sarcastic smile. "Let's go grab some lunch, shall we? I need to get away from the house for a while."

He followed her to the roof access door and held it open as she went through. "Thanks," she said quietly, going down the stairs lightly as Munch followed. He got out the keys to an unmarked and checked the tag. Close to the house. He placed his hand on the small of her back and led her outside, opening the car door for her.

Full-on chivalry mode, she thought, enjoying every moment of it. He slipped into the driver's side and started the car. "Anywhere special you'd like to eat? It's on me – whatever you want," he said, trying to coax a genuine smile from her.

She couldn't think of anything she was in the mood for, unless it was undressing him for a quickie at her place. "Your choice for lunch, John. I'm not all that hungry right now."

"Don't sulk, Sarah," he said, trying to humor her into a good mood again.

"I'm not sulking." She stared out the window, rather than face him. She wanted to take the quarter he'd used in the coin toss and put it underneath a freight train. Damned piece of worthless currency, she thought bitterly. A two-bit piece was sending her to Canada to face-off with her ex-boyfriend, with John left behind.

"Yes, you are sulking and doing a damned fine job, I might add," he said, "C'mon, like I said before, it's going to be fine. Dan will respect your boundaries as any gentleman would."

"He has this subtle little way of cranking up the heat, so to speak." She fastened her seat belt and he followed suit.

"But he hasn't followed through before," he reminded her. "Do you think he's going to push his luck at this point?" He looked at her quizzically, wondering exactly what was on her mind that upset her so.

"I have to spend a little time with the man, John. Breakfast, lunch, negotiations about bringing the perp back to the Sixteenth…" Frustration was evident in her tone; she felt backed against the wall by both her Captain and her relationship with Munch. "I want it to stay 100% business between Danny and myself, but we haven't seen each other for so long there will be a lot to talk about."

"As long as it's business, what's the worry?" He decided on Workman's kosher deli and pulled the car out of its parking space. Workman's was close, but not so close as to walk there.

"You sure you're okay with this?" she asked, concerned. The last thing she wanted was for him to wonder about their relationship while she was away. Business or not, she knew how John's mind worked. It could be a frightening, utterly irrational place at times. On most occasions, it was home to incredibly formidable logic and reasoning.

"Yes, I am," he asserted, "but obviously you're not and that's what has me so concerned. If I were to read between the lines, I'd have to say you're afraid to see him – afraid you may still have feelings for him, considerably more than deep friendship." He glanced toward her, his dark eyes questioning. "Am I right?"

"He's not the man I love, nor the man I'm in love with," she reminded him. "When it comes to my heart, John, you're the primary." A term she picked up from him, from his days in Baltimore.

"Then there's no problem, Sarah," he assured her. "Aside from how much I'll miss you while you're with him – I mean, while you're away." He blew out a deep breath. "Sorry. I didn't mean for it to come out that way."

"It's okay, John. I'll miss you, too. One night away, maybe two at the most, depending upon how fast we can get the paperwork cleared between agencies." He found a parking spot behind Workman's and they entered, sitting in a booth close to the rear entrance. Munch preferred to see who was arriving and departing.

They hid behind large menus and he asked quietly, "My place later?"

Her eyes met his. "Yes," she answered. "Definitely. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else tonight." They lowered their menus and she gave his hand a squeeze, under the table.

"Wouldn't want you anywhere else," he asserted, squeezing her hand once more.

A waiter came over to take their order and Sarah decided upon a bagel with cream cheese and lox – no onion – and iced tea. Munch ordered the brisket on rye with fries, and an iced tea. "Only a bagel?" he asked, watching her expression.

"Something I'll miss while I'm away." She had been used to his habit of bringing in a bag of fresh bagels and a container of cream cheese from time to time. When he didn't, she'd usually make a dash to a little pastry shop close to the house, bringing back bear claws and Danish pastries in time for Cragen's coffee break. Everyone else did the stereotypical cop thing when it was their turn – donuts.

"You're telling me there are no Jews in Toronto?" he asked, relieved when she grinned.

"They're there, I just don't know where," she replied. "Besides, you know Danny – he's probably already forgotten again that I'm Jewish." She rolled her eyes and they laughed, remembering how Stranahan never recalled Sarah's heritage while he ranted. "Good thing I don't work in Hollywood, the rock trade or banking. Hell, he'd probably never speak to me again."

"If you worked in rocks, he'd talk with you as often as possible, you can bet," Munch said, thinking Sarah could never go under as a diamond broker. Despite a solid working knowledge of diamonds, she hated those stones with a passion; rocks were never her thing. She wanted colorful stones – literally gem tones.

When it came to accommodating cops, the kitchen was faster than usual. The waiter brought their food and drinks, and Munch dug into his sandwich finally realizing how hungry he was. Sarah cut her bagel into four pieces and inspected the amount of cream cheese and lox it had. Satisfied, she took a bite. "I'll miss this," she said blissfully.

"I'll miss you," Munch said, between bites of brisket. "This is good, but you make better brisket than they do."

"Really? I always think mine's overcooked." She looked at his plate and could have sworn she saw half a brisket in his sandwich. "Wow…you sure get more than your money's worth here."

"And cholesterol, too," he added, smiling. "Want to split some cheesecake afterward?"

She put on her best Mona Lisa smile. "I'd rather wait until tonight. How about you?"

"We could do that…sure." He called the waiter over, asked for a box and packaged the other half of his sandwich for Fin. Tutuola would loudly complain that John was trying to lure him into Judaism, but he'd be grateful someone brought him lunch. He'd been giving testimony in court throughout the morning, and wouldn't have had time to grab a bite before heading back to the Sixteenth.

Sarah motioned the waiter for the check and paid almost before John saw her. "Hey! I said this was my treat," he said, feigning hurt feelings to a point. "At least tell me I can buy dinner tonight," he said.

"I'll let you do that," she agreed. "Just didn't want you picking up two meals in a day, Munch."

He leaned back and looked at her. "Well, okay. Thanks, Zelman. I appreciate that." It amazed him that she always wanted to pay her share, and usually more. His ex-wives expected him to pay for 100% of everything, which had drained him financially more often than not.

"My pleasure." She watched as he bagged the to-go container and off they went, back to the house. Fin would be thrilled that someone thought to assuage his inevitable hunger.

* * *

"Hey, girlfriend," Odafin Tutuola called out from behind his desk, "heard you need your passport."

"Oh, Fin?" she inquired politely. Once his head snapped upward she ripped, "Feel free to kiss my ass."

He laughed, knowing how much she hated air travel. "At least you don't have to worry about airline food – the Toronto run takes no time at all."

"Yeah, that's true," she replied. "Nothin' left to it, but to do it." She couldn't help but notice he was in a new suit, which made for a great way to change the topic. "You're looking rather handsome today, bro. How was court?"

"Thanks – found this at the back of my closet," he quipped. "It's not Brooks Brothers or Hugo Boss, but it'll do." He shrugged at the thought of having been in court all morning. "I gave them the run down and Casey got her conviction. Score another one for our side."

"Way to go!" Zelman gave him a high-five. "Good work, Fin." She clapped him on the shoulder and then walked off in the direction of the stairs. She had to talk with Walter Chen and his people.

"Congratulations," Munch said, visibly impressed. "Figured you'd want something for lunch," he added, dropping the bag on Fin's desk. "Half a sandwich – brisket from Workman's deli."

"Hey, bro, thanks…didn't have time for anything but toast this morning." He dug into the bag. "What do I owe you?" His stomach was growling and the food smelled wonderful.

"Sarah grabbed the check, you know she won't let you pay her."

"Oh, so now both of you are tryin' to turn me into a Jew," he joked. "I guess I could be in worse company…" He took a bite of the sandwich and looked positively joyful. "Whoa, at least your people know how to make some damned fine food."

"In case you were wondering, she's left for TARU to get a secured line and coordinate her travel with Stranahan." Munch poured a cup of hot water and dropped a tea bag into it. "If you tease her about him, you know I have to kill you," he quipped. "Mentioning that name in anything but the context of work is strictly verboten."

"Glad you gave me a heads up, or I would have put it to her," he admitted. "She's too much fun to tease, but I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings. She doesn't want to go?" John's expression answered Fin's question. "Why not?"

"Stranahan hasn't been seeing anyone since they split," he said bluntly. "She's afraid he'll make a play for her while she's there, and she'd rather not revisit her past." He smirked, shaking his head. "You know how she gets – the visualization of what it might be like is always worse than the ensuing reality of the situation at hand."

"Why can't you just say, 'She's afraid it'll be worse than it is'? Why are you always a damned thesaurus on a pair of stilts?" he teased. After warming his butt in a cold courtroom all morning, Fin was determined to give grief to somebody. John would more than do.

"Do what you want to me, but leave her alone," Munch warned him. "Or, it could come down to Glocks at twenty paces on the roof. I'd hate to lose you, partner."

"You're sayin' she's a better shot than I am? Or that you are? That's an insult either way," he said, feigning a hit to his dignity. "Bro, I think you and I need to settle a few things on the shooting range, if you're gonna talk smack for Zelman," he bluffed, knowing John was the best shot in the department.

Munch gave him a look, brows raised, then turned back to finish his D-D5s.

* * *

John unlocked the door to his apartment and they walked in, he went to the panel and keyed in the code to disarm the security system. "What's your pleasure tonight, Sarah? Ravioli, linguini, spaghetti? Some Italian food, a little red wine, maybe some music…and me."

"Just you," she said simply, a smile on her face. "You'll do fine." She noticed as he scanned the menu for Ca' del Sol, an Italian place they both liked. "Ravioli Marinara – no garlic bread. I love their ravioli. Oh, and some tiramisu."

"Ever thought of trying something different?" he asked, remembering she always ordered the same thing from them. "You know, be bold – try a dish you may have had in the past and really enjoyed. They have almost anything. You could get something you've always wondered about, but never had before."

"John, are we talking about food or are we talking about our relationship?" she asked, concerned. "Because right now, I'm not sure."

"Food, of course," he replied pointedly. "Oh… I get it, you're having problems turning off the profiler side of your personality." He looked at her through the top of his lenses. "In case you haven't noticed, Detective Zelman, we're at my place, not the precinct. You can relax now." He dropped his gaze back to the menu. "I'll order for you."

"You know I want the ravioli," she asserted. "It's comfortable, familiar and perfect."

"We talking about our relationship or Italian food?" he asked, a grin on his face.

Her look held a warning. "You're needling me about Stranahan already and it's not making things easier." She dropped down on his leather sofa as he called in their order.

He phoned in their order, then busied himself with opening a bottle of 2005 Syrah. John poured a glass for both of them and went into the living room. He handed off a glass to Sarah and clinked his to hers. "L'chayim," they said simultaneously, a habit between them. She swirled the deep red liquid and stared into it before taking a sip.

"I wasn't referring to our relationship earlier," he offered. "I simply thought you'd want something different from what you usually have."

"My preferences don't often change," she explained. "I know what I want and that's it."

"Now you're talking about our relationship," he said, taking a long sip of his wine.

"Could have been food," she replied lightly. "You never know." She winked at him and they laughed.

The food arrived and filled his apartment with the scent of an Italian restaurant. He'd ordered something meatless, to share with her, as she shared her ravioli with him. They sat next to each other and shared their choices, punctuated by sips of wine and frequent kisses.

After the main course, they fed each other bites of bittersweet tiramisu, John thinking how 'bittersweet' the next morning would be when he dropped Sarah at the airport. He let his long fingers linger in her reddish blonde hair, pulling her toward him in another kiss. "I wish tonight would never end," he said seductively.

"It's just getting started," she replied, pushing the rest of the tiramisu away. She put her hand against his cheek and leaned in for another kiss.

After a few moments, he led her to the living room and turned the sound system from their favorite jazz station to the CD player. Silently, they embraced, holding each other tightly. She felt something she hadn't since he'd facilitated her rescue from the Twin Towers: clingy. She wanted to cling to him forever, not leave him lonely against the crimes of the following day. He held tightly to her, as if he would lose her if he let go.

She put her head against his chest and sighed, he smelled of soap and Drakkar Noir cologne. She began to relax and melt into his arms as they slowly danced. He had one arm around her waist, the other holding her hand. They swayed together to an eclectic mix of music on the small sound system she'd brought over for her CDs, giving them everything from smooth jazz to rock to love songs.

The system shuffled again and they heard a solemn piano riff, followed by the sultry voice of Richard Marx. It was one of John's favorites, "Right Here Waiting," and he sang along softly, into Sarah's ear.

Ocean's apart day after day, and I slowly go insane.

I hear your voice on the line – but it doesn't stop the pain.

If I see you next to never, how can we say forever?

Wherever you go, whatever you do,

I will be right here waiting for you.

Whatever it takes,

Or how my heart breaks,

I will be right here waiting for you.

Anyone who'd scratch a cynic would get a hopeless romantic. They were both closet romantics and his actions weren't wasted upon her in the slightest. They continued to dance, both in their stocking feet, their passion fueled by red wine, soft music and tiramisu.

He deftly moved her to the sofa, where she stretched out and he lay down on top of her, gently pinning her as he tenderly kissed her collarbone, her neck, her lips. She wriggled her arms free and ran her hands through his gorgeous hair, massaging the back of his neck, her lips still on his. They stayed there in the dark, fervently kissing time and again. He didn't want her to leave in the morning.

They claimed the night as their own, making love into the early morning hours.

* * *

John Munch awoke to the scent of turkey sausage and pancakes, with Earl Grey tea brewing in his coffee maker. He got out of bed and stretched, then wandered into the kitchen in search of caffeine. "Morning, babe," he said. "You've been busy." He kissed her deeply as they embraced. He found where he'd left his glasses the night before and put them on, blinking in the light.

"Just a little," she said, kissing him once more. "Can't sleep too well before a flight."

"So I noticed," he said, taking their breakfast to the dining room table. "Did you get any sleep at all?" He didn't think it wise to carry through a VICAP assignment without at least a few hours' sleep.

"Enough…more or less. I can always sleep on the flight, catch a quick nap," she said, knowing there was no way she'd really doze on a plane. She searched in the pantry for maple syrup, as John poured them both mugs of tea.

He saw her overnight bag, packed, by the door. "It hurts to see your luggage, when I know you're going solo," he said, taking the bottle from her as he sat down. He poured syrup on his pancakes. "One night or two?" John stared down at his plate, trying to concentrate on something other than her leaving soon.

"I packed for two…worst case scenario," she admitted. "Hoping it's just one. Let's not talk about it over breakfast, it'll upset my stomach." She cut her pancakes into small pieces and toyed with the jigsaw puzzle on her plate, before taking a bite.

"Airports. Small fiefdoms of unmitigated governmental power," John began, "where any fool with a fake badge can do their evil bidding without threat of recrimination."

Sarah allowed him his rant, it was his way of coping with the stress from being left behind. She listened as he came within a hair's breadth of another black helicopter monologue; they knew all about the copters. He hated air travel and its security risks, but there was no other quick way to Toronto. Above all, he hated letting her go.

They took their time over breakfast, listening to the morning news, sharing the newspaper and enjoying a second slug of caffeine. Later, they showered and dressed, knowing they couldn't forestall the inevitable despite their best efforts.

"We should say our goodbyes here," he said, "before we leave for the airport." He took her into a close hug, his lips against hers for a lengthy kiss. She swept her hand through his hair and kissed him again, as he kept a firm hold around her waist.

"I refuse to say 'goodbye,'" she said. "Instead, I'll be back soon."

"It sounds a bit better that way," he agreed, taking the car keys from his pocket as if he were a condemned man going to the gallows, instead of the garage. "Guess we should go, so you have plenty of time to get through security."

They looked like any other couple carpooling to work, except they both wore nine-millimeter ordnance.

The drive to LaGuardia was silent, save for the radio's news, traffic and weather reports. Heavy weather was threatening to move through the area, which she knew would affect travel. Zelman would meet up with Stranahan and they'd fly together to Toronto, then she'd join him on a con-air flight via the Department of Justice to bring the perp back.

Quick. Easy. Stranahan. Get the perp. Back to the house. Easy. Quick.

Sarah repeated the sequence in her mind like a Transcendental Meditation mantra.

Munch pulled the Crown Victoria to the curb, then looked miserably at Zelman. "Have a safe flight, and I do mean safe," he said quietly. "Sarah – "

"Everything will be fine, John. Don't worry, please?" She glanced around, saw no Airport Police or curious passers-by, then kissed him gently on the lips. "I'll call you as soon as I can," she said, as she opened the car door. "Let me get my bag out of the trunk, then you can tell Cap I'm on my way."

"See you soon," he said, as she got out. He tripped the trunk release and watched her in the rear-view mirror.

She had her bag, waved to him without a smile and was off.

Out of his reach almost instantly. Out of the country, technically.

Out with someone else. Someone else who didn't love her like he did. Someone else who wouldn't protect her like he wanted to at that moment. Someone else who didn't know or understand her strengths and weaknesses.

He already wanted her back.

John Munch drove to the Sixteenth and parked the unmarked, then sat for a moment and composed himself. He'd brought the newspaper from Sarah's and it would be his shield, to ward off the concerned gazes and unwelcome questions the day would surely bring.

Sometimes, he genuinely hated his job – and hers.

* * *

Zelman walked briskly through the airport corridor, trying to push thoughts of John to the back of her mind. The work had begun and she had to stay sharp.

Before she got to the meeting place, she scanned the crowd, observed the area in its entirety and watched the place where she'd meet Stranahan. Advance work. Habit. She stood near a few people, made sure her carry was covered and simply watched the area for several long moments. To make sure she blended in, she leaned back against the wall, her carry-on bag next to her.

They made each other almost simultaneously. A quick flick of a glance; instant recognition. She waited. You first, she thought, still against the wall. She watched as he walked toward her casually, making his way through the throngs of people just like another weary traveler.

"Danny," Sarah called out, thinking he was a little more gray but still looked good. "Got a hug for an old friend?" She smiled warmly, hoping they'd get along for the duration of the assignment. She vowed silently to be on her best behavior and try not to lock horns with him. He was, she had to admit, the lead on their mission and the case.

He gave her a firm hug, holding on for a few moments longer than she expected. "Hey, Sarah," he said, "you're hanging in pretty well these days."

"Thanks, I think," she quipped. "Ready to storm security?" Her hand rested on her Glock, which she didn't want to relinquish to anyone, for any reason. If someone else had her sidearm, she felt violated somehow.

"Yeah, I think I'm ready," he said. "But we don't have to go right away." He had already looked at the Departures screen and the news was dismal. "Our flight's been delayed." He was studying her face carefully for any sign of anger. Delays made her downright nervous and being nervous made her more than a little irritated.

"How long?" She nodded toward a gourmet coffee kiosk and he walked alongside her.

"Five hours," he said, bracing himself for her reaction.

She sighed. "What? That long? Damn. I checked the weather before coming here," she explained, "and everything was fine. They give us reason for a five-hour flight delay? I could have stayed and worked."

"And miss the excitement and joy of wasting time in an airport?" he asked, as she laughed wryly at his sarcasm. "The front moved in faster than anticipated. Weather's tricky – high-level microbursts and they don't want to take any chances. It came down about ten minutes before you walked in." He looked over toward the coffee kiosk, with colorful chairs and tables around it. "Let's grab some coffee. We can talk for awhile."

"May I help you?" the gentleman at the kiosk asked. He was on automatic; another face, another order.

"A large coffee and a Danish, and also – " Stranahan's voice trailed off as he turned to Sarah.

"Large coffee and a chocolate chip scone," she finished. She began to fish some money out of her pocket and Danny waved her off.

"My treat," he said, paying the fellow and putting their items on a tray. "Find us a table?"

"Sure thing." She moved to a table farthest away from the kiosk, a place where they could talk quietly for the longest length of time. What she really wanted was to find a place and doze, while he watched their bags, but she knew her window of opportunity had vanished.

Rain slashed against the windows as thunder roared above them, sometimes so loud as to be heard above the airport din. Lightning and microbursts slowed the flight schedules, stopping some airlines' flights entirely. The weather showed no evidence of letting up at any point in the near future.

There was little they could do against the wrath of Mother Nature. They discussed the ins and outs of what lay ahead, then caught up on what had happened since they last saw each other.

* * *

"John? Bro, what's the problem with you today?" Odafin Tutuola asked. "Oh, never mind, I know what has you so messed up…"

"Me? 'Messed up'? You can't possibly be serious, Fin," he shot back. "I'm fine." He had brought the paper but it sat on his desk, untouched. He'd been staring at the same D-D5 for the past forty-five minutes, lost in another world.

"I asked if you wanted anything from Fiven Dime's and you didn't answer me," he said. "You still haven't answered me, because you're sitting there staring at the computer. You haven't even started to read the paper yet, and it's almost ten o'clock."

"Didn't get much sleep last night," he volunteered, pecking once more at the paperwork on the screen in front of him. If he didn't get with the program soon, Cragen would start to wonder.

"So that's it… I should'a known. A long good-bye until four or five in the mornin'?" Tutuola laughed, shook his head and turned back to his own work. "Now you'll be in a mood all day and I'll have to suffer. Some people can't come back too soon." He shot a look in the direction of Zelman's empty desk.

"I won't be 'in a mood' – maybe a little pensive is all," he retorted. "If you're still going across the street, would you grab me a strawberry yogurt?" He reached into his desk and took out some change. "This should cover it. Don't forget your umbrella." John wondered if her flight would be able to take off in the violent temper tantrum Mother Nature was throwing their way.

"No problem." He watched his partner lean back in his chair and unfold the paper, like it had been carefully choreographed instead of his morning routine. "Save me the crossword puzzle?" He slipped into his leather jacket and picked up Munch's change. "Strawberry yogurt, huh? I'll be right back."

John watched him leave, shrugged, then went back to the newspaper. Fin had busted him for missing Sarah. She was at the airport with Stranahan, waiting for their flight to Toronto. She'd have to return on a D.O.J. 'con-air' flight, but she'd do better with that than with American Airlines and their cramped quarters.

* * *

The five-hour wait had stretched into long hours of small talk, coffee and checking the Departures board. Once the storms passed through, it was a question of finding a flight once more. Theirs had been cancelled and rescheduled endlessly, giving them false hope more often than not.

They walked through the security area and were immediately flagged. Both expected it and would have actually questioned someone if they hadn't been singled out. They were waved through a security door, into a small office. Zelman noticed people looking at them with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

"Names and affiliations, please," the fellow with the rent-a-cop badge asked, looking at a clipboard. How they both despised the TSA.

"Daniel Robert Stranahan, U.S. Marshal, United States Department of Justice," he said by rote. He presented his badge and firearm to the man, who looked it over, nodded and passed it back. Stranahan holstered his gun as attention was turned to his partner.

"Sarah Rochelle Zelman, New York Police Department and Federal Bureau of Investigation," she stated, presenting two forms of official identification, wishing she could drop the FBI like they tried to drop her. She started to hand over her Glock with the warning, "It's loaded and one's in the chamber." The security guard looked at it, without touching it, and nodded his satisfaction. She holstered it and wondered if Danny had one chambered up, too.

"You're both cleared. Enjoy your flight," he said, opening the door.

They walked out and made their way to the gate. Crowds of people were waiting for the flight now, ready to argue their way on-board if necessary. The general vibe wasn't good as they shared a look.

"I swear, if they bump us, I'll plotz," Sarah said, forgetting herself and using Yiddish.

Fortunately, Danny knew exactly what she meant and how she felt. "Here, let me try to get us past the crowds," he offered, moving to the counter.

She watched as he shamelessly zeroed in on one of the flight attendants and used his charms on her. Sarah knew the woman would fall for his crystal blue eyes and easy manner, and then she saw him duck to the side – almost behind the counter – and flash his badge and gun. She chuckled as he nodded in her direction, deep in negotiations with the leggy blonde.

Zelman surprised herself, because when the pretty attendant placed her hand on Danny's arm and laughed at one of his lines, she didn't have the sting of deep jealousy she'd felt all those years ago. She was over him, it was official now. Or so she hoped.

He gestured to her as the flight attendant looked her way. They were going to be admitted to the jet-way and allowed on to the flight first. She walked over and pretended to crane her neck and look for someone, turning just enough to flash her sidearm to the attendant. "Are we good to go?" she asked softly.

"Yes, both of you," the blonde replied. "I want you to know, we have Air Marshals aboard, two of them."

Zelman nodded. "Understood. Where are we sitting?" She took out her ticket and surreptitiously passed it over for boarding purposes. "Still in the last row?"

"As requested, yes. I'll leave the empty seat in the back row, in case you need to chat with one of the Air Marshals." The attendant gave her a stub from the boarding pass. "Anything you need?"

"Just to be on-board," she replied lightly. "My partner and I would like to thank you for your help. We appreciate it more than you know." It hadn't been the first time she'd seen Stranahan finagle his way aboard a flight with special circumstances. He used his blue eyes as a weapon and women fell for it every time. Even she had, not so long ago.

"My pleasure," she said brightly. "Check in with the attendant on-board and she'll let the pilot know you're there and armed," she whispered, letting them through to the jet-way, far from the prying eyes of the public.

They made their way on board and flashed their badges to the attendant greeting them. A tall gentleman in a tan suit smiled at Sarah and she returned it. "Hey, Chuck," she said softly. "Didn't know you were doing the loop these days. You still with the Bureau?"

"Part-time, yes," he replied. "Good seeing you. I know your partner. Small world." He shook hands with Dan and introduced them both to his partner, another Air Marshal, Jake Billings.

"We're going to the back – we're in the last row," Stranahan said, leading the way. "Window or aisle?" he asked Zelman.

"Your mission, your choice," Sarah offered, looking down an aisle that seemed to stretch into the horizon. She took a deep breath and pressed onward. Once the jet filled with people, she knew her heart would pound, her palms would sweat and she would feel the claustrophobia kick in. Deep, calming breaths, she reminded herself.

"Aisle," he decided, "then I can stretch out my legs." He looked back at her; she looked wiped out. He had the urge to wrap his arms around her again; it had felt so good when he saw her. "You can put your head on my shoulder and sleep, if you want."

"Might take you up on that," she said, stowing her bag. "Besides, it makes us blend in a bit more." She snagged a blanket and pillow, since jets were usually cold and she'd freeze. She sat down, fastened her seatbelt and put her head back, the blanket around her. "I probably won't sleep, but at least I can close my eyes for a few. Thanks."

"No problem." He fervently wished she'd lean her head against him.

She did manage to catch a few winks of sleep as the flight attendants decided out who would and wouldn't make the flight. It took over an hour to sort everything out, then get passengers on-board with their luggage safely stowed, and complete cross-check. As the plane was pushed back from the gate, Zelman awoke with a start.

"It's okay, Sarah," Danny assured her, "we're just pushing back to taxi to the runway. Try to get a little more sleep, it'll do you good." He went back to reading his magazine, while he carefully watched who came aboard and what they did.

She nodded, closing her eyes once more. He put up the armrest and scooted a bit closer to her, as she finally allowed her head to rest on his shoulder. Now they looked like a couple, traveling together. Took her long enough, he thought ruefully. He wondered if Dr. Huang had made the right choice in taking her off Xanax, especially when she had to fly commercially.

As the jet throttled up for take-off, he could feel her entire body go taut. He took hold of her hand and squeezed, as she squeezed back. "It's fine," he whispered to her, as the jet lurched into the air. "We're in the air and it's not a long flight." He wished there was something he could do to comfort her, because takeoffs and landings took their toll.

"I know," she whispered back furtively, "thanks, Danny. I'll be better on the con-air flight back. We'll have more room." She forced a tight smile, glad someone was there, but she couldn't help wishing the 'someone' were instead John Munch.

* * *

"Hey, John," Olivia Benson called out, "want to go for a drink with us?" Stabler held her coat as she slipped it on. Her purse was sitting on her desk and she was pulling out a collapsible umbrella. "We're meeting up with some of the court crowd, over at Ajia."

He thought about it for a few moments, dropping his head and wondering if that was what he needed. Ajia was a great place to go…if you walked in with someone. "Sounds tempting, but if you don't mind, I think I'll pass."

"Are you sure?" she asked, daring him with her eyes to get up and go with them. "I'll grab the first round."

"C'mon, John, you know you want to," Elliot chimed in. "How often does Liv buy a round of drinks?" Stabler got an elbow in his side for that remark. "Unless you have other plans?"

"Expecting a call later," he said cryptically, but they knew what he meant. "News on the pending case." His way of reiterating, 'We're working, no matter what you may believe.' "Cap's trying to elevate his standing with the brass, which means I'm on-call until the perp is back here and booked."

"Cap's coming along, too," Olivia explained.

"All the more reason I should politely decline," he reasoned. "Give my regards to everyone – think I'll head home and wait for good news. If I went with you, I wouldn't hear my cell phone." He knew he could set it for 'thrill,' but he wasn't quite in the mood for drinks in a crowded hot-spot, talking shop until he could make a graceful exit. "Have a good time. I'll see you in the morning," he said, getting up and putting on his trench coat.

At his place, he changed into black jeans and a matching sweatshirt. He sat down on the couch and picked up the remote. He turned on the television and started scrolling.

Talk show. Banal. Click.

G-rated movie, kids and furry things. Juvenile. Click.

E! Entertainment. Ridiculous garbage. Click.

Fox News. An insult to his intellect. Click.

He turned the TV off and got up, turned on a couple lights and the sound system, then shrugged back into his damp trench coat. He had clothes at Sarah's and decided he would spend the night at her place. If he were lucky, she'd even have gone to the grocery store.

He'd forgotten. Again.

He grabbed his umbrella and quickly walked the rainy two blocks to her building. He greeted her doorman and then took the stairs to the second floor. At her door, he got out his keys, said hello to one of her nosier neighbors and let himself in. He turned off her alarm system and reset it, then pulled off his coat.

Her place still smelled like home. He slipped out of his shoes and checked the fridge. Orange chicken…and a note. He took the Post-It off the orange chicken and read:

Love you. Knew you'd be here.

You're busted, sweetheart.

I'll be home soon. – S.

He grinned and put the chicken in the microwave for three minutes. Once it was done, he took it to her couch and stretched out. He picked up the remote and turned on her TV.

The Weather Channel. More storms for the East Coast. Depressing. Click.

Sirius Music. Maybe later. Click.

The History Channel. "The Atlantis Conspiracy." That would do. He put the remote down on her coffee table.

He watched and learned as he ate, the orange chicken reminding him of her. He wished she were there to share it. After a time, he fell asleep…thinking of her.

* * *

Sarah stepped up to the hotel registration desk immediately after Danny had checked in. "Detective Sarah Zelman, I have a reservation for tonight and tomorrow night – guaranteed for late arrival." She got her credit card from her purse and prepared to sign the registration card.

"Zelman. Z-e-l-m-a-n?" the clerk asked, seeing Sarah nod. "Detective, I'm sorry, but we don't have your reservation. It wasn't keyed for late arrival. It dropped." The clerk's tone was apologetic as she keyed in more information and shook her head. "It's no longer here, I'm sorry."

"It 'dropped'?" She gave the clerk a tight smile and took a deep, calming breath. "Can you pick it up again, since it dropped?"

"No, I'm sorry… There's a huge convention in the city and we have no rooms tonight." The clerk braced herself for the inevitable onslaught of a blow-up. "I looked for a room for someone else about twenty minutes ago, and there's nothing else available."

"You lost my reservation, because your people didn't key it in for late arrival," Sarah said hotly. "I requested a late arrival code for a reason," she asserted. "I guess you'd better get housekeeping to bring a set of sheets, because I'll be sleeping on the couch in your lobby."

Dan was certainly no stranger to her strident tone, the volcanic warning before the pyroclastic flow of anger. "Sarah, look, there's a king bed in my room," he whispered. "Stay with me," he offered, forcing a friendly tone in his voice to get her anger in check. "I've got this under control," he said to the desk clerk. "Have housekeeping put some extra towels and toiletries in my room. Detective Zelman will stay with me."

"Sure, that'll work," Sarah said tersely, aware there was no other alternative available. "Thank you, Marshal Stranahan." She fought hard to keep the sarcasm from her tone. Zelman saw the woman's shoulders relax; the clerk relieved there would be no repercussions from the detective.

"Here, let me do something," the woman offered. "Some comps to the breakfast buffet for the time you'll be here." She passed Zelman four coupons and looked at her hopefully. "I'm sure our manager would want to make things right," she continued. "Have a couple drinks on us, won't you?" More chits of paper changed hands.

"Thank you," Sarah replied, cutting the young woman a break. "I appreciate your kindness. I'm sure it was simply someone's oversight." She looked to Stranahan. "We have this worked out – no worries." She and Danny moved away from the desk, toward the elevators.

"Your room, huh?" Zelman said glumly, as they entered the elevator. She was glad it was empty. "Didn't we try this in Las Vegas once, only I had the better room?"

They had been in Las Vegas for a conference, had been crazy for each other and she felt slighted that he'd opted for his own accommodations, after she'd booked a double queen room for them both. It wasn't like she hadn't told him he was expected to stay with her.

"I was supposed to have a date, back then," he said, painfully aware there had been no 'date.' She had known, too – his 'date' had been fabricated. He had simply been afraid to stay with her, for reasons still a mystery to Zelman. Especially when she discovered he followed her while she went off to a couple of jazz clubs their first night there, then he fled to a different hotel for the last night of his stay.

To deepen the conundrum, he had almost proposed to her, ironically in front of the New York, New York hotel, after a jazz concert they'd shared for his birthday. They ended the night after a long conversation, with him being positively giddy as they parted.

Compared to her past with the utterly illogical Stranahan, maintaining a relationship with the oft-times eccentric John Munch was stone cold simple for Sarah Zelman. Right at that moment, she missed John more than ever.

They exited the elevator and walked down the hall. All she could think was, 'Dead Woman Walking,' as she made her way along next to the Marshal. She was still trying to rationalize Fate's fickle finger, and how it had punched the wrong keys on the hotel's computer. "Maybe there's a sofa in the room," she said, silently praying she was right.

"We'll know in a moment," Danny said, as he slipped his key-card in the lock. He heard a click and opened the door, gesturing toward Sarah. "After you." He passed her a spare key-card.

"Son of a – " she choked back the rest of the epithet, seeing no couch in the room. His room had been downsized; there was a queen-sized bed and two chairs. She couldn't sleep in the bathtub, in case the bathroom was needed during the night. She wouldn't sleep on the floor, because she had a deep-seated fear of anything that would crawl over her, especially if it was the eight-legged variety.

She stared hard at the bed, willing it to switch to a couple full-sized beds. It remained intact beneath her glare.

She was so tired she wanted to go to sleep right away. Maybe, if she had enough sleep early on, she could pull an all-nighter. "Mind if I take a nap? I'm still kind of beat." She dropped her bag by the wall and looked longingly at the bed.

"Go for it," Danny answered. "Mind if the TV's on? I wanted to catch the Lakers' game."

"Believe me, I won't even hear it." She placed her Glock on the nightstand, stretched out on the bed and fell deeply asleep.

Two hours later, she awoke to his cheering a last-minute dunk that was nothing but net. "Danny, want to go get something to eat?" Sarah was wide-awake and refreshed. Maybe the all-nighter would be possible after all. "We could have a drink after," she volunteered, remembering the coupons.

"Sounds good, let's go." He looked at her steadily as she got up and smoothed out the bedspread. She ran her fingers through her hair, in hopes it wasn't too disheveled. "I like your hair, darlin' – nice cut. Very pretty."

She blushed. He had called her 'darlin,' his pet name for her in the past. And so it begins, she thought, smiling at his Irish charm. "Thanks. Glad you like it. I needed a 'cop cut' for NYPD, but wanted something feminine. John approves, too." She'd just drawn a line in the virtual sand, in hopes he wouldn't step over it.

"How is John? I take it you're still together and the cop talk hasn't come between you both?" He had frequently wondered if their both working sex crimes would eventually wrench them apart. While they caught up on everything at the airport, he noticed she hadn't mentioned Munch, except in the context of work.

Danny preferred the potential for shoot-outs and last-minute flights on con-air. It had surprised him when she started working sex crimes for the Bureau, more so when she stayed out East and joined the NYPD's SVU.

"He's fine…doing well, thanks," she said, as they walked toward the elevators. "We're still very much together. No worries there." Zelman studied his features, but he was as unreadable as ever. She'd never had much luck with his poker face, he was just too good at hiding how he felt when he wanted to. It reminded her of Munch and his almost ever-present mask he wore in front of their squad-mates.

Over dinner, it was time for a full-court press. "When we get the perp tomorrow, I need him back in New York first. Once we're finished with him, the D.A.'s office will let you know." She picked through her chicken fettuccini, extracting the chicken and broccoli but leaving most of the noodles. "Any problems with that, Danny?" she asked quietly.

"Not as long as we can take him back through the D.O.J., so I can show a collar for my efforts and expense," he answered. "You're every bit as blunt as I remember." He grinned. "Like you, I just want my piece of the action. We both want the guy, but my people gave me authorization to hand him off to you – as long as he ends up in a max security house."

"With everything we have on him, he's going down forever," she assured him. "Rikers will have to put him in the tank on suicide watch, but that's easy to arrange." She pushed back her plate of pasta and took a sip of iced tea.

"They sure won't put him in the general pop," he agreed. "I'm glad you all have enough evidence to send him away. Beats the alternative." He had a wry grin on his face.

"Oh, yeah, to see you back him against the wall. Maybe lure him into a battle, then give him a taste of Wild West justice?" She almost glared at him. "That's why I'm here – to keep that from taking place before we can get him arraigned in the States."

"I understand that, Sarah," Stranahan asserted. "We're on the same team, so you can stop with the cop routine, okay?" He busied himself with his steak. It was so rare she wanted to close her eyes as he cut it, to shut out the sight of blood. She saw enough blood while she worked, without having his predilection for barely-flamed meat in front of her again.

"Don't get defensive, Danny. My captain's all over this, as is the Mayor, so you'll get a high-profile collar out of it to take back to your buddies." She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose and then pushed her glasses up, trying to think of some way to ease the stress threatening to give her a headache of epic proportions. "I'm up here working, so you're stuck with me as a cop. This is not a pleasure trip, especially after they screwed up my reservations."

"Get over it, Sarah," he said simply, a piece of steak on his fork. "It's a queen-sized bed, we've been friends for years, we can make it work." He hated it when she dug in her heels and overcomplicated a situation. They were both stubborn and sometimes it showed more than they realized.

"You told me once, 'don't touch me while I'm asleep' and now I'm afraid to share a bed with you," she admitted. "Your sidearm will be on the nightstand, and frankly I'm afraid of getting popped if you're half-asleep when I come in." She took another drink of iced tea, wishing it were something stronger. That would come later.

"I'm not as bad about that as I used to be," he replied. "Wake me up when you come in. I promise not to reach for my Glock," he said, chuckling. "If you can't call my name and wake me, just slide in beside me. I promise not to pop you, darlin' – you have nothing to worry about."

The look on her face spoke for her; she looked unconvinced. "It's just…sleep."

"Yep, that's it. Worried about something?" He put his silverware down and took a long sip of iced tea. "Afraid you'll mistake me for John, in the middle of the night? Like I could get so lucky as to get what he does," Stranahan said, laughing softly.

"You had your chance and blew it." She punctuated it with a sharp look. "Danny – " she began, her tone holding a warning. "Being a jerk does not become you, trust me on that."

"That's it, isn't it? Ohhhhh…" He relished having the advantage in their conversation. "Now I see it. You're afraid we'll wake up snuggling each other and you won't know how to explain it to John." He grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "Busted, darlin'. You are absolutely busted," he reiterated.

"Have your fun, Stranahan," she snapped. "I'm off to get a drink." She flipped a twenty on the table and left, going straight to the bar.

His smile didn't fade as he watched her walk out. Like Munch, he noticed the slight swagger to her walk. She'd holstered her Glock before dinner, and he couldn't help but wonder if she'd wanted to use it on him when he busted her. Stranahan could almost always wrestle for the upper hand in their relationship and win. He used to never let her forget it.

He allowed himself a silent laugh, then turned his attention back to dinner. He'd catch up with her later, of that he was sure.

* * *

"Tanqueray martini, dry as a desert, as many extra olives as you can spare," she requested, taking a seat at the bar. She looked over to each side, it was early enough she was the only woman in there thus far. Before a drink was placed in front of her, a tall blonde Adonis wannabe sidled up to her. "May I buy your next drink, pretty lady?" he asked, his cologne a cloud around him.

She pulled up the hem of her sweater and glanced down at her work carry, raising her eyebrows. Her badge was on her belt next to it, gleaming in the low light. "Oh… Sorry, officer," he apologized. "But you're off duty, aren't you?" he asked, hope springing eternal.

"I'm a detective with the NYPD," she explained gently. "I'm waiting for a colleague. Actually, I'm not entirely off-duty, per se."

"A colleague? Male or female?" he wondered aloud. He was on his third beer, which made him much more forthcoming than usual.

"Male," she said, bursting his bubble. "I appreciate your kind offer, but must politely decline." She let him down as softly as she could, pointing him in the direction of another lady who'd just taken a set at the end of the bar. "I'll bet she'd appreciate some friendly conversation with a handsome fellow."

He nodded and moved in her direction, as the bartender placed Sarah's martini on the bar. She put down the coupon and a hefty tip, before raising the glass to his health. Zelman caught herself before she said, 'L'chayim.'

"Hey, Sarah – found you," Stranahan said, ordering a draught beer. "Didn't mean to run you off earlier. I'm sorry…you're right, I was being a jerk," he apologized. He used to apologize a lot, she recalled. "Look, I'll sleep somewhere else if it's that much of a problem."

"Nice try," she quipped. "There's nowhere else you can sleep. We're sharing a bed, Danny, and that's final. You take shorter showers, you get the bathroom first in the morning."

"You sure? You could have it…" He took a sip of his beer. "But then, if I remember correctly, you said you take 20-minute showers."

"And still do. A long shower is my time to be Zen, before the start of the day." She sipped her martini and drowned each olive before popping it in her mouth. The warmth of the gin made her mood a little brighter. While Danny's attention was on the television, she excused herself and snuck outside with her cell phone. She punched in the number and heard it ring three times.

"Munch," John answered. "Sarah?" He'd recognized her number on his caller ID.

"It's me, alright. Did I wake you?" He sounded tired and she missed him even more. "John, are you okay?"

"I'm fine…dozed off while watching television," he admitted. "You saved me from waking up on the sofa." She sighed; his voice was so seductive when he was sleepy. He had absolutely no idea what it did to her. If she could have flown home under her own power, at that moment she would have.

"Your sofa is remarkably comfortable, if last night is any indication." They'd made love on his couch, before moving to the bedroom for more cuddling, snuggling and after that even more lovemaking.

"I'm at your place," he admitted. "I miss you so much, I wanted to be where I could be surrounded by your vibe, by the scent of your hair, by the smell of your shampoo and cologne." He had raided her bookshelves and turned on her sound system, to listen to some of their favorite music. God, how he missed her – thinking about her being outside the United States made it even harder on him.

"I love you, John… I miss you, too." Stranahan wore Drakkar Noir cologne, too, but it wasn't half as wonderful on him as it was on Munch. She could smell the residual cologne on her, from when she and Danny had shared a friendly hug as they met up, and she longed for John. She wanted to have him there, with her, holding her.

"I love you, too, Sarah," he said simply, longing for her touch. "How was your flight? Is your room acceptable?" Small talk to calm them, connect them because she was a mere two hours away, but it could have been another planet to them then.

"The flight was several hours late – had to burn almost a day at LaGuardia, when I could have been with you, working," she explained. "The flight itself was extremely turbulent, they'll probably have to replace the arm rests because I left my nail marks in them," she quipped. "They lost my hotel reservation, then explained there's a huge convention in town. I'm stuck sharing a room with Stranahan," she added miserably.

"He booked a double room?" Munch asked, wondering what she could do, since they'd messed up her accommodations.

She hesitated, wondering if she should come clean. "Uh…no. A single queen room, downsized from a king room. That was all they had for him. I'm not happy, John," she said, hoping it didn't come out as whining, which she felt like doing after the terrible day she'd had without him.

"You have to sleep with him?" Munch asked, agitation coloring his tone. "Damn it to hell."

"I'll probably sleep in the lobby, on one of the sofas down here," she said. "I took a nap while he was watching the Lakers game. Maybe I could simply pull an all-nighter, even thought he assures me he won't touch me if I sleep in the same bed." Her sigh was the epitome of irritation. John knew he wasn't the target, but he was frustrated for her nonetheless.

Munch noticed her tone held a note of skepticism. "Share the bed, Sarah, it's okay. Please promise me you won't sleep in the lobby. I worry about your safety enough as it is." He wished he was there; somehow, he'd make everything all right for her, but they were separated by several hundred miles and there was nothing he could do. Except try to convince her to be safe. "I'll worry less if you're in a room. At least you can lock the door – and you'll have your Glock on the bedside table."

He could practically hear her thinking it over, the small silence stretching between them. "Okay… I'll take the edge of Stranahan's bed, but that doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Sarah, it's a question of personal safety, it's not like you're cheating; don't worry about it so much." He longed to be near her, and now she was forced to spend the night in a strange bed with her ex-boyfriend. He knew what a control freak she was and how much this would affect her. "It's going to be okay."

"It will… It would be better if he'd stop with the damned teasing, though."

"He's just nervous," John said. "Who wouldn't be, having a beautiful woman in their bed?" He reached over and took a sip of ruby red sauvignon port, which he'd opened from her wine rack. He made a mental note to save the rest for them to enjoy together.

"I never made you nervous, did I?" she asked, suddenly curious.

"We're different. Our union is karmic, it's dynamic…it's perfection epitomized, in so many vital aspects of life. We complete each other in a million different ways," he said, the wine making him wax poetic. "We think alike, our souls join flawlessly whether we're working on a case or together making love. No two people were more meant for each other than you and I." He knew she felt the same, which meant he didn't even contemplate the thought she would ever stray.

"That's so true, John…every word you've said is so true. That's why I miss you terribly." Her voice broke. She felt her lower lip begin to tremble; for the first time in years, she thought she might shed tears from missing him so much. She ached to reach through the phone and touch him, to trace her finger over his cheek, down to his jaw, to tilt his head down and kiss him deeply.

"I miss you, too. Every bit as much as you miss me." He sighed, longing for her. "Go back upstairs and get some sleep. Do it for me? Please?" His hand closed around the phone, missing the way they'd intertwine their fingers as they walked or cuddled. He inhaled deeply, the traces of her cologne all around him. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel himself stirring at the sound of her voice.

"Okay, I'll sleep on top of the bedspread and find an extra blanket as a cover," she conceded. "But know I'll be dreaming of you," she said softly.

"I know… That's why I'm at your place tonight. I'll be dreaming of you, too." He was up and heading for her – their – bed. Munch looked for a CD from the rack and found the same Richard Marx tunes he had at his place, only this time on the greatest hits compilation. "Right Here Waiting" would play as he thought of her, while he chased what sleep might come. "I can always hug your pillow," he said, half-joking.

"Well, I certainly won't be hugging Stranahan," she quipped. "I'll be hugging my Glock." She laughed and he laughed with her. "I love you, John. Sleep well. I'll be back as soon as I can." She'd lowered her voice, so only he could hear her.

"I love you, too," he replied. "We'll do something special once you're back." Dinner and dancing crossed his mind, but he knew they probably wouldn't make it out of her apartment – or his. He wanted to have her, all of her, as soon as he could when she returned.

"Sounds good. I'll call you later, if I can." She paused. "Let Cragen know I've negotiated first dibs on our perp – they should release him to us tomorrow." Her tone said she didn't want to spend another night with Stranahan.

"He'll be happy." John's tone was a bit brighter. He'd so desperately wanted to hear her voice and didn't want to let her go.

"Night, sweetie," she said softly. Their connection was so clear, he could have sworn he felt her warm breath in his ear as she spoke.

"Goodnight, babe," he replied sleepily. "Talk with you soon."

"Definitely," she asserted. "I'll try to catch you at lunch tomorrow."

"Don't let him get you shot," John warned. "I want you back safely." He knew Stranahan's sometimes cowboy manner and didn't want her on the losing end of his actions.

"He won't…don't worry. He'll be lucky if I don't shoot him," she said wryly. "I'll be back soon, I promise," she whispered. "'Night, sweetheart."

"'Night," he whispered. He reluctantly ended their call, missing her more than ever. He got into his scrubs and pulled back the covers of her bed. He put the Marx CD in her sound system, queued up "Right Here Waiting" and listened to it as he pulled her body pillow close. He was too lonely to sleep, knowing she was miserable too – stuck with her ex-boyfriend in a bed she didn't want to share.

He would make it up to her when she returned. He wanted her back so badly, it was almost unbearable. He hummed along with the song, turned out the lights and vowed to sleep. Where his dreams would take him was anyone's guess, but he knew his Sarah would be there to meet him.

I took for granted all those times,

That I thought would last somehow.

I hear the laughter, I taste the tears,

But I can't get near you now.

Oh, can't you see it, baby?

You've got me going crazy…

Wherever you go,

Whatever you do,

I will be right here waiting for you.

Whatever it takes,

Or how my heart breaks,

I will be right here waiting for you.

* * *

Sarah felt the key-card in her pocket and debated what to do next. She longed so much for John right then, she knew Danny was a dangerous substitute. Unprotected sympathy sex wasn't her style, after she'd been caught out once with her then-husband. It had all ended in a tragic miscarriage, which only further ruined her marriage. A hard lesson learned. A life lost. The guilt over it all still stung her, one of many issues fueling her PTSD.

She'd rather get popped in the gut by a perp with a .45 caliber than cheat on John Munch, her frequent lover, her sometimes-partner, always her friend. She blew out a breath and walked back into the hotel bar. Another coupon, another martini. Another thought of John and how much she missed him. How much they missed each other.

If she smelled Drakkar on Stranahan, she'd lose her mind…what was left of it at the moment. It wasn't fair to her, to John, or to Danny – who would be confused, unprepared, left with guilt over what they once could have had, and the fallout would be fatal to their friendship. No, she couldn't go back to their room until she was utterly exhausted.

Which happened about two hours later, around midnight, when the day's events and the martini had both caught up with her. She dragged back to the room, slipped her key-card into the lock and opened the door softly. Danny was sound asleep and snoring. Snoring. Like John did. Most women hated it when their men would snore, but she found it calming. When John snored, it was even sort of sexy. She'd cuddle closer to him and listen to his snoring, as she drifted into deep sleep.

But not this night. It wasn't John, and Danny's snoring could rival that of a 767's engines in pre-takeoff mode. She took her Glock from its holster and placed it on the nightstand. If she'd fired it, it wouldn't have been heard over his sawing logs.

Sarah went into the bathroom, washed her face, brushed her teeth and decided she couldn't win. Stranahan's bottle of Drakkar Noir was on the counter. She could detect the subtle scent in the small room. John. The cologne was heavenly when Munch wore it.

Moonlight entered the room from behind the sheer drapes and Danny looked positively angelic as he slept, as she'd recalled from their years together. Long dark lashes brushed against his lightly tanned cheeks, a shock of nearly-black hair falling across his handsome face. It took every bit of her remaining reserve to not brush his hair back.

To touch him now would bring her to tears. For all the wrong reasons. He'd awaken and want to talk her through her heartache, as he'd done a million times past; she'd be so confused and guilt-ridden all she'd be able to do would be to sob against his muscular chest. No. She'd find a way to make it through, alone. After all, she was a cop – she had to be physically and emotionally strong to survive.

When John slept, every one of the lines in his face relaxed and he, too, had an angelic look. She thought of him with her body pillow, trying to fall asleep with her essence all around him. Time and distance were having their way with them both.

She didn't bother getting out of her clothes, because she was technically still on-call. Nor would she undress in any way while sharing Danny's bed. She found an extra blanket and pillow in the dresser drawers, carefully placing the pillow at the head of the bed. She wrapped the blanket around her and lay down carefully on top of the bedspread, facing away from him on the edge of the bed.

She lay there, still awake, thirty minutes later when Danny unconsciously draped his arm over her. He was sound asleep and had no idea what he'd done, but she was…stuck. To move meant waking him, and she would have gladly taken a bullet to allow him a well-deserved night of sound rest. She shrugged, wrapped her arm over his and fell asleep.

* * *

It was five-thirty in the morning and Dan Stranahan was in the shower.

Zelman awoke to the sound of running water in the bathroom. She got up and stretched, trying to coax some range of motion into her back and neck once more. She'd hugged the edge of the bed so completely, she was stiff and sore all over. It would be her turn to shower soon enough, but her initial thoughts were of John.

Sarah knew Munch was an early riser, by five o'clock it would be certain he was awake. Once more, she punched his number into her cell phone and waited. C'mon, honey, answer your phone, she thought.

"Munch," he answered, the sound of a microwave – hers – in the background. "Sarah?"

"Good morning, sweetie," she began. "I don't have long, but wanted to call and tell you I miss you." She listened as water continued to run. Danny was probably shaving as he showered. "Did you sleep?"

"I got a little sleep, I guess… I miss you, too," John said, wishing he could touch her. Mornings at her place usually meant he awoke to a wonderful breakfast, made with care. This morning, he had tea warmed over in the microwave and a bowl of cold cereal. Using soy milk wasn't quite as bad as he thought. "Is everything going okay?" he asked, trying to sound conversational instead of desperate.

"So far, so good," she replied. "If everything goes as planned, I should be back around two this afternoon. Allow extra time for the bus to drop us off, and then I'll get the perp through booking." She sighed. "After which, depending upon what happens, I'll see you."

"Couldn't be too soon," he admitted, taking a sip of warm tea. "How was last night? Dare I even ask?"

She could imagine the look on his face, simply from his tone of voice. "Oh…agonizing," she blurted. Sarah listened and knew Danny was still in the bathroom. "He snores like a jumbo jet with a bad engine, he swung his arm over me in his sleep and I had about an inch of space along the edge of the bed," she reported, cringing at the memory of clinging to the bed all night. "Aside from that, life was just peachy for five whole hours."

"I'll take pity on you and let you sleep tonight," Munch offered, "as long as it's in my arms."

"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," she replied. "The water just stopped… I should go – my turn next for the bathroom." As usual, neither of them wanted to be first to end the call. "Hey…"

"Hmmmm?…"

"Have a safe shift, John," she finally said. "I'll be home soon."

"Okay…I will. Please, Sarah, take care," he whispered. "See you at the house." He snapped his cell phone closed and stared into his mug of tea, watching the swirls in the liquid. God, how he missed her.

* * *

"Okay, let's do this thing," Zelman said curtly. She got up from the breakfast table and Stranahan almost had whiplash, she'd gone from dear friend to all-business cop so rapidly. "Danny, I need a windbreaker with D.O.J. on the back. Got an extra one handy?"

"Yes, I do," he answered, "but you can't have it – you're NYPD, not D.O.J. You can't impersonate a Marshal, just like someone in New York isn't allowed to impersonate a cop." He folded his arms across his chest, and watched as she held her Transitions lenses to the light, to darken them.

"If I have to fly con-air, I'm not going in as NYPD," she asserted. "First perp who spits on me will get a face full of Glock." She stared at him, her dark eyes glared into his crystal blue orbs, slamming home her point. "Now, we can play this the easy way, or you can make my life difficult and watch me go bad cop on an entire friggen plane of perps. Your choice," she said matter-of-factly.

"Sarah, why do you have to be this way? You know I'm perfectly capable of putting the perp on the jet, then you can come in once the cage is locked." He was using his most patient tone of voice, because he knew her opinion of con-air flights. She was always hyper-aware of everything, as any cop would be inside a plane-load of violent criminals. He also knew he was patronizing her, but – as usual – he didn't care.

"I'm not going to sit back and let you do all the heavy lifting on this, so cut me a break," she replied. "I'm capable of putting the perp in the cage, just like I can put him on the bus when we reach target." She wished they'd already done this thing and had landed at the airport. D.O.J. flights were put on a separate runway, with a secured jetway. A specially-designed bus would be standing by to deposit perps at their respective jurisdictions.

Danny reached into his bag and pulled out a couple windbreakers, emblazoned with D.O.J. on the back. "There. Now you'll look like you're from the Department of Justice," he said flatly. "Still time to join me for real, if you want to. The Marshals would take you in a heartbeat and you'd see all the action you could ever dream of." He shrugged into his own windbreaker and left a tip to cover the free buffet coupons they'd been given.

"You have all the subtlety of a Black Talon bullet, Danny." She stood. "Thanks, but I'll stay with NYPD," she said. "I get enough action. Twice as much, actually – sometimes, I'm solo, sometimes with Munch or Tutuola," she explained. "I clean my gun probably as much as you do," she jabbed.

She cleaned her gun after each time it was fired; she wanted to be safe and keep her partner safe, no matter whom she worked with. She put on the windbreaker and it guarded her bad-cop attitude. She flipped some bills on the table and walked out of the restaurant, beside him, not behind him.

Earlier that morning, she had checked the clip and made sure her nine-millimeter Glock was loaded and ready – one chambered up. Just in case. Granted, she'd inspected it when they went through security at LaGuardia, but she left nothing to chance.

"I'll make a couple of calls, to be sure they're ready for us to pick him up," Stranahan said. "Meet you in the lobby in about twenty minutes?"

"You're on. See you then – you're driving, by the way," she said.

"You know I am, because it's still my show," he retorted, walking off to a secluded spot to make calls.

Zelman took the opportunity to call Munch, since she had time to kill. Before she punched numbers into her cell phone, she watched the passers-by look oddly at her, having seen the lettering on the back of her jacket. Their eyes said it all: _Fear._ The police were around, therefore they had a reason to fear something or someone.

_Be afraid, _she thought as they walked by – _be very afraid, because I haven't had enough coffee yet and my partner on this little soiree is being an ass._

She called John and heard him snap, "Munch." It didn't sound like his morning was starting out so well, either.

"Hey, it's Sarah," she said softly. "You okay?"

"Good morning," he began, his tone meaning, 'I have to get somewhere quiet, before we can talk.' She heard his footsteps and the background noise gradually disappeared. "I need you back here pronto," he said. "You have no idea."

"Oh, yes, I do," she replied. "I miss you, too. What's up?" She could tell he'd caught a case and it was a challenge. "Catch a hot one?"

"You always know…" He respected her intuition. "It's a rape case – young female Yeshiva student," he explained. "I remember when women couldn't even go to Yeshiva."

"I remember those days, too," she said. "Hey, I considered becoming a rabbi once. When there was only one female Conservative rabbi in the entire United States," she mentioned. "How are you doing with the vic?"

"I'm going along as cautiously and carefully as I can, but I think she'd rather talk with you. She seemed to open up a bit more when I told her you'd be back soon. She understands that we work together. She needs to talk with a woman, one who identifies with her culturally and spiritually," he said, his words tumbling out almost as fast as he could think. "Rape kit came back positive, as expected."

"Do whatever it takes to make her feel more comfortable, more in control of her situation," Sarah said. "I'll chat her up as soon as I get to the house, which should be this afternoon. When I get there, call her in and we'll see what we can accomplish together."

"I'd like to put this one down quick, in case we have a serial rapist at the Yeshiva," he said urgently. "Bad feeling about this one. Need you," he added. "In more ways than one."

"Need you, too," she said quietly. "More than you'll ever know." She sighed, watching Stranahan coming off the elevator with his bag and hers. "I have to go. Have a safe shift, John. See you as soon as I can."

"Okay… Careful on con-air, all right?" He worried about her and she was where he couldn't protect her, increasing his worry exponentially. "See you at the house soon."

"Have some coffee ready for me, would you? This stuff at the hotel is dishwater." They chuckled and she felt triumphant when she got him to laugh.

"I'll make it strong enough to strip off varnish." They laughed again, softer, their own twisted sense of humor something else they had in common. Habit. Predictable. Comfortable. "Bye for now."

"See ya." She closed her cell phone and sagged against the wall for a moment. One deep breath later, she was all-cop again.

* * *

Stranahan came into view and she looked up hopefully. "Mounties ready for us?"

"Yep, time to ride." He got out the keys and they went to the rental car. A Crown Victoria. "Don't say anything about the rental, Sarah. Some habits die hard."

They shared a laugh over his choice of vehicle. Typical cop car. "All we're missing are the lights and siren."

"Too bad that option wasn't available, or I would have paid for the upgrade," he quipped.

Danny scanned the radio for a jazz station and they listened to Pat Metheny and a host of others as he drove them to the airport. They'd meet the Mounties at the Customs Center, sign off on the paperwork to transfer the perp, and by then the con-air flight would have landed to greet them for the flight to New York.

"Got perps to take down to Miami, too? Or is New York the big stop on the tour?" Sarah asked, curious.

"Got some for Atlanta, afterward down to Miami," he answered, "then I think I'm home for a couple days. If you need me, I'll be in the office – or you could always page me."

"Don't worry, Danny," she said, patronizing him for a change. "I'll find a way to keep you in the loop."

* * *

Zelman walked down the jetway, the perp between her and Stranahan. It wasn't the first time she'd flown con-air and it wouldn't be the last, just her stinking luck. The perp was in chained cuffs and hobbled by leg and ankle shackles. He'd been cavity-searched by the Mounties and again by Stranahan, who hated doing body cavity searches even though they were part of the job. The perp was clean, nothing concealed, clad in an orange D.O.J. jumpsuit; he stood silently between them, wondering what his future held.

At the jet's door, they stopped. "I'll go first," Danny volunteered. His collar, his turn to cage the perp. Or so he thought.

"Bullshit you will," Zelman said, yanking the perp with her. "Your collar, but I'm putting him in the cage. You can talk shop with the crew." She hated it when he tried to objectify her as less than capable – she deserved better than that, she could hold her own with anyone or almost anything. Munch, Tutuola, Stabler, even Cragen would back that up. "C'mon, let's put you in the cage with the other animals," she said, stepping onto the plane.

A cacophony of whistles, catcalls and heinous insults stormed her when the other perps saw her come onboard. She was more than ready for it. "First fuck who pisses me off this morning gets a reward – a Glock to the back of his skull," she yelled at full volume, drawing her firearm. "If you push me, I'll throw your rancid ass out at thirty-thousand feet and save the taxpayers some money."

Stranahan sighed and shook his head. Bad cop, no donut, he thought, knocking on the cabin door. It was just as well he was going to shoot the breeze with the pilot, co-pilot and flight engineer, because he didn't want Sarah to see him watching her.

Something in him rebelled at how tough she could be when she did her job. Something deep inside him almost surfaced, begging her to stop being a cop and remain a beautiful, albeit strong, lady.

Zelman led the perp to an empty seat in an empty row. "Sit," she said curtly. He did as he was told and she secured his chains. "Leg chains are clear – lock 'em now!" she yelled, watching as Danny threw a lever and everyone's leg chains were forced to the floor. No escape now, she thought. She bent over in each row, performing what would normally be a flight attendant's version of cross-check, to ensure each perp was locked down.

As she bent over a row toward the front of the plane, a perp across the aisle elbowed her backside and everyone laughed. She smiled, stood and leaned over him. "Way funny, aren't you Chuckles?" she said, her tone as friendly as a rattlesnake.

"Nice ass, lady," he said with a grin. "Looking good." He hadn't seen a woman so up close and personal in years, she knew.

"Really? Thanks. Nice of you to notice," she said, suddenly backhanding him hard across his smile. "Next time, asshole, you get to feel my nine-mill applied to the back of your head. Don't push the luck you don't have." She drilled him with a glare and could see fear dilate his pupils. "I told you before, not to fuck with me." He shrank back in his seat, his hands in his lap.

"Hands to the front, girlie girls!" she called, keenly aware they were all men. Some of whom had a foot of height and at least one hundred pounds over her, but she refused to be intimidated. She didn't have the luxury. As she expected, she felt something wet against her jacket. 'Chuckles' had spit on her while he moved his hands into position. "I warned you, Chuckles…you're a bad monkey. Now it's my turn."

She raised her Glock and smashed him so hard in the back of the head, he gasped in pain and surprise. "If you think I'm kidding, ladies, it will only get a hell of a lot worse – now, hands to the front! I'm late for my donut break, you miserable pieces of detritus!"

They didn't know who she was, but after she slammed one of them, they all fell silent.

She knew just how hard she could hit, without leaving a mark or causing someone to bleed. Stranahan was speechless as the prisoners complied with her instructions. "Hit it!" she called out.

He moved another lever and their hands were restrained within locked chains and cuffs. Zelman made one last check, followed by a Marshal's inspection as a fail-safe, and then moved to the very front of the plane with him.

"Final lockdown," she commanded, as a metal cage door stretched across where the curtain would have been during a first class flight. Once it was firmly locked in place, only then did she holster her weapon.

"Good to go?" Danny inquired, watching her carefully.

"Clear," she snapped, strapping into the jump-seat next to him, as the second Marshal did the same. "We're ready for take-off."

"You have a real way with people, Zelman," he quipped. He looked at her and shook his head. "Deal's still on the table. Interested?"

"You're just after me for the recruitment bonus, which you'll use on cheap women and expensive liquor," she retorted, giving him a wink. "I'm happy where I'm at," she asserted. "If I'm ever unhappy, I'll let you know." Her tone forbade further comment.

"Hey, at least I tried. Give a guy some credit!" Danny flashed a huge smile and she laughed, despite herself.

"Granted, you tried… But I'm a hard-ass, remember?" They elbowed each other and she took in a sharp breath as the jet left the taxi-way for the main runway. "I hate this part."

"So much for being a hard-ass," he chided her softly. He scooted a bit closer, to calm her without it being obvious. "I know how you get," he whispered. "It'll be fine, darlin'…just take a deep breath and try to relax."

"It will be fine, especially when we land," she said, closing her eyes, willing her stomach not to lurch. That night, she'd be with John again…and it certainly would be everything she wanted it to be. Then, and only then, would she finally relax.

* * *

As they circled lower over LaGuardia, Sarah could feel the inmates' apprehension as they began to grow anxious.

There was a raw, rainy storm front moving through the New York metro area again and the plane's wheels skidded as it touched down, slowed and the engines roared in reverse to bring it gradually to a halt. They taxied to a specially-secured jetway and rolled up to chocks, as an agent signaled the pilot with orange batons. The jet's engines didn't stop completely; it was a short turn-around and then on to Atlanta.

"We're here," Danny said, releasing his seatbelt and standing. "It's been fun, Zelman. If you ever change your mind – about anything – give me a call."

She knew exactly what he meant and didn't give in to his needling. "You'll hear from me once he's been arraigned. I'll keep you updated, Stranahan – thanks for everything. Next time you're in town, I'll buy the beers." Zelman released her seatbelt and stood. "Me or you?" she asked him, wondering which of them would take the perp from the cage.

"My turn this time," he replied firmly. "Step off and I'll bring him to you." The look on his face said he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer this time; he was hungry for action even though it was simply moving a con. He opened the plane's main door and she stepped onto the jetway, feeling cold damp air all around her. Almost home.

A moment later, she was again reciting Miranda rights to the perp to make sure he wouldn't be released on any technicality, leading him to a New York Correctional Center bus. She seated him, this time in relative silence compared to their flight, and locked the cage behind her. It was her pleasure to call her captain with the good news. After a couple of stops, the bus pulled behind the Sixteenth Precinct and she realized they had a welcoming committee for the perp walk – Cragen, the Chief and Hizzoner the Mayor.

"We're back and I'm taking him in for booking," Zelman said, giving them a good look at him before she pulled him alongside her and into the building.

"Fine work, Cragen," the Mayor commented, "I'm pleased."

"Your department dollars at work, gentlemen," Don replied. He allowed himself a slight smile. He'd take Sarah and John to lunch later that week; she'd made him look terrific in front of the brass and John had been the one who located the perp at the start.

"Great job, Donnie," the Chief said warmly, shaking Cragen's hand. "Get your people to put him away forever, now that we've wrestled him from Canada and the Feds."

"You can count on it, sir," he replied. "You won't be disappointed."

* * *

"Well, hell, look who joined the D.O.J.! I knew it!" Fin almost yelled, seeing Zelman in the windbreaker she'd borrowed from Stranahan. "Girlfriend, don't even come in here wearing that contraband crap, unless you've jumped ship to the dark side," he teased. He stood up and reached out, shaking her hand. "Great collar," he said admiringly.

"I was simply the courier," she said, "John did all the heavy lifting to get him. Munch deserves the credit." She saw his empty desk and looked quizzically to Fin. "Reading room?"

"No, Cragen's office," Munch said, behind her. "Welcome back, Zelman." He tried to hide his joy and relief behind his dark lenses, but she could practically feel his pulse jump at the sight of her. She longed to turn around and hug him, but knew she couldn't. "Do us all a favor and burn the windbreaker, won't you? I wouldn't want the influence of a government agency to rub off on you," he quipped.

"As if I hadn't worked for the Bureau for years, or did you forget?" she retorted. "Hey, it worked – no one knew I was NYPD and they thought they were spitting on a Marshal," she said, pulling out of the lightweight material. "I think I _will_ burn this…can't send it back." She dropped it in the trashcan and hoped it would be gone by the next morning.

"They spit on you?" Munch asked, his head back. "Really?" He cringed at the thought. "Damned animals."

"Ask Stranahan… Yes, one of them spit on me and I gave him a Glock to the back of his empty head," she said, glad she'd asserted her authority in front of the D.O.J. "No one gets away with that on my watch."

"That's our girl," Fin said, pleased. "Like he didn't know you could hold your own with anybody." He let out a disgusted huff. "He's lucky you didn't start shooting."

"Sorry you had to endure all that," John said, concerned. "Was Dan surprised at how bad a cop you could be?" He laughed softly, having seen her at her worst. At least twice, he'd had to pull her off a perp when she got too angry on a case.

"So surprised he chatted up the pilots while I locked 'em all down," she admitted. "I'd bet a paycheck he'd think twice before he patronizes me again." She shook her head, thinking back to Danny's expression as she caged the perp.

Cragen came out of his office, poured himself a cup of coffee and said, "Munch, Zelman – my office. Now." He walked into his office as they followed. They couldn't see the grin on his lined face. Every now and then, he enjoyed keeping them guessing, if only for a moment or two.

"Crap… C'mon, I haven't even had time to get coffee yet," Sarah groused, glancing longingly at the coffee maker.

"Isn't this how everything got started?" Munch asked, hoping they could finally put their latest VICAP case to rest.

"Whatever it is, I swear there is no way I'm going to flip you for it," Zelman said ruefully.

* * *

Cragen stood as Munch opened the door to his office. He walked in first, followed by Zelman. "Have a seat," Cap offered. "Let's chat about what we just accomplished, shall we?"

John looked at him through the top of his lenses. "Something wrong?"

"Not at all," he said, finally smiling, "I just thought you might have a little something to say about it."

"We didn't have to shell out for a hotel," Sarah volunteered. "John told you?"

"He did. That must have been awkward," he replied bluntly. "You and the Marshal get along okay?"

"Aside from his being the prince of passive-aggressiveness, we were good. The job got done, which is all that matters," she said, watching Cragen's expression. "Dan Stranahan can be a royal pain in the ass, but we compromised."

"You're both in here because you did very well," he admitted. "I'm quick to give an ass-chewing when it's necessary, but in this case I'd like you both to be my guests for lunch. You can decide where – it's on the Chief, technically."

"Sarah?" Munch had an evil grin on his face.

"You're choice, John – you did the hardest part." She saw the look on his face and immediately blurted, "No! Don't you dare!"

"Steak or Bistro, Sarah? Flip you for it!" Before she could snatch it from his hand, Munch's quarter was airborne, gleaming in the light. He and Cragen laughed as she gave John a withering glare. Munch and Zelman knew that wherever they ended up, it would be a good time – because they were together again at last.

# # #


End file.
